


Here I am (waiting to hold you)

by Tanagramme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanagramme/pseuds/Tanagramme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had never fallen in love before. Sherlock <i>is</i> in love with Mycroft, but then he has always been.<br/>Everything about John is unexpected and this is no exception: Sherlock has fallen for him.</p><p>From a prompt I filled eons ago on Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme:<br/>"Sherlock wanted a romantic relationship with Mycroft, but his brother denied him. He did it for Sherlock's good, to not make him any more antisocial and not because he wasn't interested. Sherlock hates him for that.<br/>Now John Watson came and with it a possibility that Sherlock will actually find himself a lover.<br/>Somehow Mycroft is not glad at all."<br/>Spoilers for season 1, then AU. That's how old this fic is!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The heart

Sherlock is four and Mycroft is intelligent. More than his parents, his grandparents or the neighbours. More than the sum of them all. More than _Sherlock_ himself. Mycroft is _fascinating_.

Mycroft is everything Sherlock wants and needs. So Sherlock wants and needs no one else. He will never make friends. Friends are for people who don't have Mycroft.

\---------

Sherlock is eight and Mycroft is the only teacher he listens to. Others are not worth his interest.

\---------

Sherlock is twelve and Mycroft is away. Studies are a waste of time and Sherlock wonders why Mycroft bothers: he already knows all things useful. The world is dull and unbearably idiotic and meaningless when they are apart. The long and colourless weeks between his brother’s visits blend in a living hell of boredom and a new, uncomfortable form of longing.

Sherlock misses him like one misses a lover. The thought occurs to him on a Sunday evening not five minutes after Mycroft's departure and Sherlock thinks _of course. We are perfect for each other_. The notion is so obvious that Sherlock accepts it the way he would an axiom: Mycroft and Sherlock should be together, always.

Sherlock moves in with Mycroft the following year and the world has colours and sounds again.

\---------

Sherlock is sixteen and Mycroft is attractive. At night, Sherlock closes his eyes and imagines what his brother would look, smell, sound and feel like if they were to share a bed. Different scenarios play out in Sherlock’s mind. Would Mycroft be tender and affectionate? Slow and methodical? Rough and selfish? _Possessive?_ Sherlock comes whispering his brother’s name, always.

He is not ashamed. He sees no reason to be. When Sherlock is old _(attractive)_ enough, he will simply sleep with his brother: no harm will be done.

\---------

Sherlock is eighteen and Mycroft still hasn’t made a move. Sherlock doesn’t understand why: they are both adults now, and Sherlock knows his desire and affection are not unwelcome. He is, after all, very observant.

\---------

Sherlock is nineteen and Mycroft is pushing him away, effectively ending his brother’s attempt at a kiss. Sherlock is desperate and all he can ask is “But don’t you _see_?”

Mycroft says “No. Little _brother_ ”, his voice uncharacteristically wavering and full of shame and sadness and Sherlock might have imagined the longing in his brother’s eyes, but he doesn’t think so.

Sherlock is nineteen and Mycroft is moving out of the flat they share. The freefall starts.

\---------

Sherlock is twenty and Mycroft is a stupid coward full of senseless bigotry. Sherlock is above all of this. He’ll move on.

\---------

Sherlock is lost and Mycroft is what he misses most. It’s so unfair that he has no word to express his anger.

Sherlock wishes he could fall out of love. Meanwhile the drugs help.


	2. The heart

Sherlock is twenty-two and Mycroft is worried about him.

He begs – begs! – his little brother to come live with him. Says it was a mistake to move out, that he thought it would do Sherlock some good to have space for others in his life. That he misses Sherlock. He tells him almost everything Sherlock longs to hear and he is sincere, Sherlock can tell. So Sherlock pretends that he has to think about it and goes back to his dingy flat and his drugs and enjoys making his brother suffer for a little while (he doesn’t feel especially guilty, the drugs take care of it). Sherlock, for once, is the one with the power. This is a high in itself.

He accepts Mycroft’s offer two months later.

\---------

Sherlock is twenty-three and Mycroft is stubborn.

They live together just like before. They talk a lot when Sherlock feels like it, they _share_ a lot and Sherlock had forgotten how good, how challenging it felt to have someone whose mind works as fast as his (maybe even _faster_ than his). Sherlock has gone back to not-really-studying in his messy, peculiar way. He still does drugs (the thrill is unique), but less often. He doesn’t have friends, in spite of Mycroft’s insistence that he should make some (Mycroft always insisted, Sherlock never saw the point. He might as well have a pet, or a potted plant. People are so _slow_ ). It’s almost what Sherlock has always wished for.

Except. Except Mycroft is adamant: they can’t have a sexual relationship, for the very mundane, commonplace reason that they are brothers. They should not be physically close as a rule. Sherlock hates it, but he can tell Mycroft won’t change his mind. (Not yet.)

Not yet: Mycroft never asserts that he doesn’t _want_ to make love to his brother, but that he _can’t_. Mycroft’s resolve will crumble; it’s a question of time.

\---------

Sherlock is twenty-five and Mycroft is not jealous.

Sherlock has sex with a different man every day, and he always brings them home to have loud, lewd sexual intercourses. Doubly so when Mycroft is home.

He has sex in every single room of their house, including Mycroft’s study and his bedroom. Sherlock always bottoms there: on his knees, leaning on his forearms. Facing away from the man taking him. He buries his nose in the sheets and the pillows, so that the scent of his brother surrounds him. It makes it easier to pretend that Mycroft is the one moving inside of him, hands running over his body, his cock. He comes all over the sheets and savours the afterglow imagining Mycroft is the one he’s sharing the bed with. Sherlock never cleans after himself.

Mycroft is not jealous.

If anything, he looks disappointed.

\---------

Sherlock is twenty-seven and Mycroft is involved in a relationship with _someone else_. Someone he has conversations and dinner and sex with and Mycroft is right to be careful and hide everything about _the other one_ (a man, Sherlock is certain). Sherlock is not especially malevolent, but apparently, he is not above hurting (and maybe even killing, if he ever decides to listen to the darkest corner of his mind).

For the first time, Sherlock has doubts. Was he mistaken, did he base his hopes and expectations on a biased, defective interpretation of facts? Sherlock hates self-doubt and he hates being wrong even more. Mycroft is like a poison for his mind, taking away his rationality and objectivity.

Sherlock is twenty-seven and he has learnt a while ago that he can’t control his own feelings where his brother is concerned. What he can do though, is to avoid contact, to reduce exposure to the contaminant. From now on, he resolves to see his brother as little as possible. This time he is the one who moves out. The revenge is incredibly dissatisfying.

\---------

Sherlock is twenty-eight and Mycroft keeps on interfering in his life since he moved out (this time he comes by with a job offer). Sherlock is irate and this is a welcome point to focus his anger on. He expresses his frustration with cruel words, insults snarled and spat at his brother.

Soon he turns verbal abuse into a hobby. The occasional family gatherings become nightmares for their parents. Sherlock simply can’t help it. Every time he sees him, he lashes out at Mycroft: his weight, his job, his clothes; everything, anything. It doesn’t soothe him in the least, but what angers Sherlock the most is that he doesn’t think a word of it.

(Mycroft is brilliant and handsome. Riveting. He has always been. Sherlock fears that he will always be.)


	3. The head

Mycroft makes lists; he has always thought and worked with lists. Inventories of words, feelings and actions he organizes to his convenience. He likes how neat they are, sorting out the complexity of the world and making it _manageable_ \- the sensation of control they give him over things.

There is a - thankfully rather short - list of his failures. Mycroft finds it distressing, the amount of items regarding his little brother that pertain to this category. Mycroft is clever, powerful and determined to do anything for his baby brother, but there are things that his brilliant mind and various skills simply cannot help him obtain.

At the top of this list, a fact supported with a lifetime of evidences: Mycroft is unable to make Sherlock happy. Mycroft can influence his brother’s opinions, change his mind, he can get him to _sit down, keep quiet and behave_ , to feed properly and – to a certain extent – study. Mycroft could undo Sherlock. His brother’s happiness, though, is an ambition Mycroft has never managed to attain. He has been trying for more than twenty-six years now, and it is an utter fail. His attempts are increasingly disastrous.

Sherlock, brilliant, inadequate Sherlock, can be so childish where his emotions (and his terrible pride) are involved. Of course, of course he would expect Mycroft to be jealous when he brings and fucks men in their home. He doesn’t see that there is no point; his brother is not of the jealous type, especially about something he can get: having Sherlock in his bed would be frighteningly easy.

Mycroft will be jealous of the man (or woman? - unlikely, yet a possibility) Sherlock will have a real, constructive, _safe_ relationship with. That is what Mycroft longs to have, and that will never happen. Nothing, not his love, not his concern, will ever make Sherlock happy and grounded with Mycroft. Undeniably, the man who will possess this precious ability, will be the one Mycroft will be envious of with all his heart.

Mycroft won’t let anybody hurt Sherlock, not even himself. There is a way to ensure it, one logical step Mycroft will take because he knows when the time has come to recognize defeat. His brother’s unavoidable hatred is worth the salvage of the wonderful, bright man Sherlock is slowly becoming – and that Mycroft’s presence is only preventing from fully developing. Sherlock will think that Mycroft led him on and lied to him and _betrayed_ him. Then he will fall out of love with his own brother, freed at last of this terrible burden Mycroft was too selfish to alleviate sooner.

So Mycroft carefully creates himself a love story with a mysterious, non-existent lover -outwitting Sherlock is not an easy feat -; and it takes months (nothing too obvious nor too fast, Sherlock would notice the falsification) to slowly make Sherlock aware of it, until he inevitably jumps to the wrong conclusions. Everything goes as planned, yet victory has a bitter taste.

The world does not feel quite the same after that, and the list of things about Sherlock that Mycroft misses gets longer every day.


	4. The heart

Sherlock is twenty-nine and Mycroft is nowhere to be seen. It is a relief and an ache at once. Life is tolerable. Sherlock’s methods, his results (successes, almost all of them) and the increasing amount of cases brought to his attention keep him entertained, but the truly interesting ones a rare occurrence. The police are in charge of these. The police could definitely use some of Sherlock’s impressive intellect and precious insight.

Three weeks later and an unsolved-until-Sherlock-told-them-all-the-obvious-truth homicide later, Sherlock meets Gregory Lestrade.

He introduces himself as a consulting detective. He feels so right, so satisfied with himself that he wonders why he ever thought he needed something (someone) else in his life. Solving obscure, intricate crimes and other felonies is a bliss equalled only by drugs - and maybe something else, the fulfilment of a wish, a wild inextinguishable hope Sherlock has locked away in a tiny, frustrated part of his mind that he doesn’t manage to obliterate, delete, alter in the least.

\---------

Sherlock is thirty and Mycroft is ridiculously powerful. CCTVs blossom across London – nothing new there. The way they follow Sherlock’s comings and goings has Mycroft’s metaphorical fingerprints all over though. It is annoyingly comforting.

\---------

Then there is that night just after their father’s funerals. Whenever Sherlock thinks back to it - which he doesn’t, if he can help it - the sense of loss that invariably washes over him is still as sharp and intense as it was the morning after. Then again, he knows that his father’s death isn’t the only thing he mourns.

Sherlock is thirty-two and Mycroft is exhausted because he managed their father’s funerals from A to Z. Their mother is devastated, the frail, inconsolable shadow of her usual self.

Once it all is over, they are left alone in their childhood home; their mother already asleep in her room. Sherlock is standing in the middle of his bedroom, lost in thought and memories, when his sibling comes in. He radiates with weariness and Sherlock thinks _cease-fire_.

Mycroft is trembling a little and Sherlock isn’t very good at comforting, not even his brother (it’s always been the other way around), so he says “I’m sorry for your loss” like everybody told him today and it startles a small, affectionate laugh out of Mycroft. Then things blur a little because Mycroft’s loss is Sherlock’s too and it hurts so he just freezes, closes his eyes and waits for the other to walk out and up to his own bedroom. Mycroft doesn’t.

Instead, he cups Sherlock’s face in his hands, gently strokes his cheek with his thumb in a slow, pacifying rhythm. Sherlock feels him getting closer, shaky exhales caressing the side of his face. Mycroft lays warm, tender kisses on his temple, his eyelid, the corner of his lips.

Sherlock moves his head back to watch as his brother’s resolve falters: tonight, they could be lovers. Sherlock strongly suspects that _tomorrow_ will be another story because this is a rarely seen, temporary vulnerability that makes Mycroft act this way. If Sherlock were a good man, he would probably not take advantage of it and push him away. However, he has wanted this captivating man long enough, so he takes the lead and brings their lips closer. They share their first proper kiss and Sherlock’s desire blossoms into a familiar, intense arousal.

A small sound suddenly escapes Mycroft’s lips, distressed and lost, as if the kiss shatters him instead of comforting him. But Sherlock can’t stop, he doesn’t want to, he has longed for this so strongly and now he knows that he was right all along: Mycroft loves him too, deep and fierce and unstoppable. So he tightens his grip on his brother when he starts moving away, brings him closer, and carries on kissing him until Mycroft stops half-heartedly struggling. He deepens the kiss as he feels his prize relaxing in his arms, and Sherlock is positively euphoric. He is standing at the top of the world, he is invincible, he is immortal, _Mycroft is his_ , finally!

They take their time to undress and discover each other’s body, hands and lips following forbidden paths along the skin. Mycroft’s pale body is wonderfully responsive to his brother’s caresses, his skin soft and warm under Sherlock’s hands. Once they are naked, Sherlock leads him to the bed, lays Mycroft down on his back, lies beside him.

Sherlock spends a great amount of time stroking, kissing and licking the other’s neck, collarbones, nipples, eliciting shivers and small moans that please him to no end. Mycroft’s skin tastes just like a saltier nuance of his scent, a mixture of fragrances that Sherlock could only describe as masculine, clean and lush. For a second, Sherlock remembers the faint scent of his brother on sheets and pillowcases, and a faceless man moving behind, inside of him, and how he wished it were Mycroft. The thrill, the joy of having the real thing makes him drunk.

They slowly rock against each other and in no time they find their rhythm. Sherlock can feel each of Mycroft’s quiet gasps of pleasure against his neck, and he knows with absolute clarity that from now on, sex with someone else won’t hold any interest for him. No one has ever felt half as good as Mycroft. Half as right.

They come whispering each other’s name (oh, his brother’s _voice_ , unsteady, reverent, somehow melodious – Sherlock will remember it forever). Nobody loves, has ever loved, will ever love Sherlock the way this man does. They fall asleep shortly after, lying face to face in a loose embrace, exhausted but content and relaxed in the warm, peaceful atmosphere of the room.

In the morning, Sherlock wakes up to an empty bed and a sinking feeling in his chest. On the bedside table, Mycroft left a note. Mycroft thinks that somewhere out there, there is a man better suited for Sherlock. He will never change his mind. Sherlock’s sorrow becomes unbearable: first his father, then his...

Thirty minutes later, for the first time in twenty years, Sherlock finds himself silently crying on his mother’s shoulder, held tight in her arms.

Later on that day, Sherlock will scratch a match and when the note goes up in flames, he will think of burning bridges.


	5. The head

The first time Mycroft feels physically attracted to Sherlock, it is because of the violin. They are spending a quiet ordinary evening in, comfortable armchair and white wine for Mycroft, wide sofa and hot tea for Sherlock.

The seventeen-year-old is devotedly cleaning his violin. The instrument is cradled in Sherlock’s lap, his left hand delicately holding its neck to stabilize it as he slowly drags a cloth up and down its belly with his right. Sherlock strokes it with great care, his pale skin offering a beautiful contrast with its varnished wood, as he runs his fingertips along the violin, searching for minor damages he could have overlooked.

The sensuality of the scene suddenly sparks something strong and dangerous and _forbidden_ somewhere excessively south of Mycroft’s navel, and before he can help it the picture of his own body under his brother’s caresses springs to his mind.  A wave of desire and a succession of vivid images - his brother’s legs wrapped around his waist, hands on his own longdarkhard cock, wantonly sucking on Mycroft’s fingers – follow, and what terrifies Mycroft is his reaction, a heady thought that _you could do it, Sherlock will let you, he actually is waiting for you, still a virgin for you_.

Mycroft’s heart skips a beat and for ten long interminable seconds of _no you can’t, not your own brother, no matter if he wants you to, and he is too young, oh Sherlock it had to be you_ he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think. Of course, Sherlock notices and just like that, his little brother knows that the attraction is mutual, and he looks so _happy_ it hurts.

What Sherlock doesn’t notice though, is Mycroft’s disgust and shame at his own sexual impulse. He is young and mostly innocent - Mycroft is sure that his sibling simply doesn’t see what’s wrong with sleeping with him - but Mycroft isn’t.

Sherlock is one of a kind, a marvel, a source of pride and joy well worth enduring his varying moods, whims and fits of pique. His intellect is invaluable, and he is turning into a handsome young man. It is only natural that Mycroft loves him so much; however, he has no right to add sex and romance to their already disturbingly close, symbiotic relationship.

Mycroft has to say something right now. _We can’t_ , and Sherlock will understand that he is denied what he wants, and he will be angry and upset and heartbroken and - and Mycroft can’t bring himself to say the words.

So Sherlock, expectant and confident, waits, and waits, and waits, and when he is tired of waiting, he tries to kiss him, and their world crumbles and Mycroft doesn’t even know what to say anymore.


	6. The heart

Sherlock is thirty-two and he is on a slippery slope.

Life is getting increasingly duller when he is not working on a case, in a stark contrast to the excitement of the chase and the puzzle solving. He relishes being the only one who sees the truth, and then manoeuvring correctly to catch his prey - sometimes dumb, sometimes challengingly clever. Sherlock’s rules, Sherlock’s moves, Sherlock’s game.

He doesn’t even spare a thought to his brother; he would like every day to be like this.

Because when he is not working, time slows down. He is bored, and when Sherlock is bored, his thoughts go places he hates. He remembers, hates and impossibly misses _him_. The drugs offer relief, they entertain or knock him out, create sensations and perceptions, accelerate or slow him down; a myriad of effects diverting him from the truths and despicable emotions Sherlock is unable to ignore. (Their synthesis is a nice little hobby too, not always successful nor possible with Sherlock’s equipment; an intriguing study anyway.)

Unfortunately, _D.I._ Lestrade is not very happy with this little cocaine habit of Sherlock’s. He is even more upset with Sherlock’s experiments with other illicit substances, and time stretches more and more between Lestrade’s visits, between cases.

(If Sherlock is honest with himself – which he is – he must acknowledge that his substance use is getting... invasive. From in-between cases to _during cases_ consumption, and Sherlock won’t go there – _Wherewhenwhat am I Did I imagine that Where is Mycroft nonono not thinking of him Who cares I wantneed more_ – again.)

Then what Sherlock will later label The Incident happens and an apoplectic Lestrade decides never to let Sherlock work with the Yard again, unless Sherlock “gets clean”. Sherlock does the logical thing: favouring his newest, more politically correct - and fortunately, even more dangerous - interest. He stops taking drugs, cold turkey. After all, it isn’t like last time, his dependency isn’t as strong. He can manage.

It is only when Sherlock aches with withdrawal, alone in his freezing flat, that he has to admit that he is addicted, that his body - weak, unthinking, _defective_ \- trapped and betrayed him.

At that moment, his brother comes in, and Sherlock hates him more than ever for witnessing this, Sherlock fragile and in need and utterly _pathetic_ and God, so ugly - and why does he have to care? He hates him at least as much as he loves him, and since their last encounter, the scale is ominously tipping towards hatred. Sherlock wants Mycroft out of his life.

However, Mycroft’s hand is fresh and soothing against his cheek, his voice is familiar and strong, so Sherlock closes his eyes, and wordlessly accepts the assistance - God knows what Sherlock would say if he opened his mouth, hateful words or worse: _I miss you_ is the one sentence his presently impaired brain seems to be stuck on.

It feels like surrender.

\---------

Once Sherlock is alright, he tells Mycroft to “Fuck off”. That’s the only thing he says for five days, until the other leaves him alone. It doesn’t hurt that much, watching his brother go. Or it may be that by now, Sherlock is used to this specific brand of pain.

Sherlock is thirty-two and he already hates the years to come.


	7. The heart

The day he turns thirty-three, Sherlock is alone.

He lets his mother’s call go to voicemail. He hasn’t spoken to another human being in weeks, since his last case. Sherlock is so glad that most of his acquaintances dislike or hate him. It is easier, less likely to hurt. All in all, aloof is the safest option.

He doesn’t read Molly Hooper’s text before deleting it.

\---------

Sherlock knows that Mycroft is his worst mistake. His _Norbury_ of brotherhood, and if he could go back in time – well, what’s worse is that if he could go back, Sherlock isn’t sure that he would do anything different. His nefarious love will probably destroy them, yet he would pick their twisted relationship over a normaldulllifeless one any day.

Whenever Sherlock sees the ring on his brother’s right hand, something raw and hurting awakens in his chest. It burns with vicious satisfaction and sated revenge, because Mycroft said _No_ to him and he was punished for it. However, sometimes, if Sherlock isn’t careful, he catches himself entertaining thoughts of reaching out, of letting go, of forgiving, because his brother can’t hide how miserable he is, not from him. Then he remembers that that’s the point, remembers the note left on his bedside table - like a vulgar one-night-stand! -, and he makes himself relish his victory...

Sherlock is thirty-three and Mycroft is in search of a romantic relationship. It’s Christmas and Sherlock doesn’t want to see Mycroft but he does want to please his mother, because she is so sad and _incomplete_ since their father died. So he tries not to think of his childhood bedroom and what happened the last time he was there. He is doing well until Mycroft arrives, then he is murderous.

Mycroft is single (has been ever since that night with Sherlock) and it seems like he wants the whole world to know: his clothes, his demeanour, his cologne, his new diet... many clues point to Mycroft being available, creating an overall impression that even lesser minds can interpret correctly.

Sherlock feels himself spinning into madness at the prospect of someone having what is undeniably _his_. It is unbearable, especially after what they shared in this very house. He will kill the lover, he knows. He will make it long, painful and humiliating. He might even kill Mycroft (tenderly, lovingly) - yes, his brother will die in his arms, and Sherlock will be his last sight, his last thought and it will be perfect. Then he will just have to commit suicide, lay down by his brother’s warm corpse and let death bind them together. The scenario makes that dark corner of his mind purr - he needs to stop planning it _right now_ , otherwise he might do it, no matter how absurd and histrionic it is.

Sherlock wants to forget, he wants not to care, and no case on the Earth will ever be enough to do so. He needs to get high, that’s the solution, and suddenly he can’t think past his craving. Sherlock gets up and makes to leave in order to get what he needs, but Mycroft follows and stops him. They end up having a strangely quiet conversation, all menacing murmurs and heinous words in soft whispers, away from prying eyes in their mother’s bathroom.

Mycroft thinks that he has it all figured out, that Sherlock is about to relapse. Mycroft’s worry and immense guilt blind him: he doesn’t notice that if Sherlock was sincere when he tried to leave, he is now faking the distress.

He had calmed down by the time he got his coat and scarf, remembering the painful and utterly humiliating process of detoxing a few months ago. At the time, he had promised himself that it would never happen again; a promise Sherlock is intent on not breaking. If Sherlock can’t keep that disgusting, burnt and pointless part of him that _feels_ on a tight leash, then he can at least have even stricter control over his body. He has always used it like the tool it is, and it is time that it learns its place. It is useful, efficient and unobtrusive. It will stay that way. Transport. His mind is what matters, whole and sharp and perfect.

But Mycroft doesn’t have to know that. So he lets Mycroft think that he is more fragile than he actually is, and uses it to his advantage. They come to an arrangement: Sherlock will be clean as long as Mycroft will be single. It’s insane, unfair, unacceptable, it really is, even by Sherlock’s moral standards, and what is positively miraculous is that his guilt-ridden brother barely protests. Mycroft, stubborn, I-always-get-things-my-way Mycroft, willingly gives up on his love life in exchange of Sherlock taking good care of his own mental and physical health. It is Christmas indeed.

The following week, Sherlock sends his brother a ring. The message is clear: Mycroft belongs to him, and he’d better let everyone know that he is not available.

Sherlock doesn’t exactly win, but Mycroft does lose. Somewhere along the way, it became enough.

\---------

Sherlock is thirty-three and Mycroft is already trying to scare (or is it to annoy?) away his new flatmate. John Watson isn’t impressed and Mycroft approves, Sherlock is sure. Otherwise, John would already be far away from London.

\---------

For Sherlock, it’s love at the first gunshot.

To say that it is unexpected would be the understatement of the century. It will only take three months, a vigorous swim session and Sherlock’s tentative kiss to make John aware of his flatmate’s interest.


	8. The head

Mycroft’s list of his mistakes is quite short, which is very fortunate. Mycroft’s miscalculations tend to have dreadful consequences, be it in the professional field (London, July 2005 – he will never forgive himself) or in the personal one (Sherlock, a lifetime and then that night – _he will never forgive himself_ ).

On the day following his father’s funerals, Mycroft awakens to the smells of thyme (nice), and sex (disconcerting). Sherlock’s scent has a strong undertone of thyme that Mycroft has always found mouthwatering, and for a second he wonders if he is having an extremely vivid dream.

The memory of the previous night comes crashing over him then, wonderful and God, wrong, wrong, wrong, and Mycroft is rather thankful for his lifelong practice in his lack of sudden reaction: no jolt, no shiver, no tightening of his grip on Sherlock’s shoulder. His breathing does hitch, and there is a slight tremor in his hands, but he will let it pass.

He is lying flat on his back. Sherlock is on his left, head pillowed on his chest, his own left leg and arm draped over him. He is asleep. The alarm clock on Sherlock’s bedside table reads 5.24 am.

His brother’s dark curls are soft against his chest; so soft Mycroft has to squash the urge to card his fingers through them. He can feel the slow rhythm of Sherlock’s exhales on his skin, and the intimacy is both too much and not enough. The blanket slid down the bed at some point in the night, meaning that if he raised his head slightly, Mycroft could see the curves of Sherlock’s spine – _cervical, thoracic, lumbar, sacral_ , a distant part of his mind provides him – and not doing it is much harder than it should.

Sherlock shifts in his sleep, snuggling up closer to him, bringing in contact his crotch with Mycroft’s thigh, a soft and incestuous touch. Too close, too much, that makes Mycroft sick with fear at his want, his need, his love, his lust for his own brother (in their _mother_ ’s house), and together with no buffer they will either be too much, too many, or not enough, they will probably end up killing each other, or maybe everyone else. Dangerous, toxic, mutually destructive. A downward spiral. No. Never.

Sherlock will hate him, but Mycroft made his mind years ago. No change of heart now. Mycroft cautiously extracts himself from his brother’s arms to get up, he covers Sherlock’s nude body with the blanket and swiftly puts on his clothes. Then he indulges, watches Sherlock sleep for a very long time, for the last time. He tries not to think of Sherlock’s sadness and anger when he wakes up.

He decides to leave a note. That is a cheap, mean way to deal with it, and it leaves incriminating paper trail. Sherlock deserves so much better, but Mycroft just can’t face him. If he stays, he if sees Sherlock’s distress, he will be compelled to hug, cradle and kiss and it will be just like last night.

A few (heartfelt, heartbreaking) tears last night and Mycroft was lost, body and soul. Sincere tears, and deep in his heart Mycroft will feel this swell of long-standing love and protectiveness for his _baby brother_ , and he will be lost. Sherlock won’t hesitate to seduce him again to ensure that he gets what he wants in the long run.

Today will take less, Mycroft is sure, because now he knows exactly what he is missing out on.

He will never forgive himself.


	9. The heart

Sherlock is thirty-three and John is sleeping by his side. Earlier this day, they shared their first kiss and minutes later, they were making love for the first time. John fell asleep in Sherlock’s bed, held tight in Sherlock’s arms – Sherlock just couldn’t let go and John didn’t ask him to, didn’t ask anything, just smiled, closed his eyes and fell asleep. Sherlock spent the following hours in a terror he can’t name, apprehensive, wishing John would wake up and realise and _regret_ already. Sherlock knows that when John wakes up, there will be disgust and shame and _No_ again.

Sherlock wanted John, so much so bright so painful, and now he has him just like he had Mycroft once and he vividly remembers waking up to _the note_ \- it still hurts, how can it still hurt, a months old harmless memory? – and he made the same mistake and John will deny him too and he won’t be able to live through that again, not while clean.

Panic overwhelms him now, because John awakens, blinking and yawning, disoriented. But then John sees him and recalls and smiles, _brighthappyrelieved_ just like Sherlock and he mumbles “Hey”, his voice brimming with ease and incredulous happiness. He shifts closer until they are cuddling and _yes_ , this is what Sherlock wanted with Mycroft and he didn’t expect anyone else to be able to bring him the relief, comfort and warmth – but John? Nothing is expected with him, it simply keeps on happening, wonderful, marvellous, Sherlock-proof.

Sherlock had never fallen in love before. Sherlock _is_ in love with Mycroft, but then he has always been – a feeling that changed colour and shape and definition over time, although always a part of him. Natural, if now unwelcome. Everything about John is unexpected and this is no exception: Sherlock has fallen for him (and that is what it actually feels like, falling hard and fast and terrifying).

Sherlock certainly didn’t suspect how fantastically good being involved in a welcome relationship feels.

\---------

Sherlock is thirty-four and John is his second, undreamed-of chance at this love mess. What Mycroft unknowingly ravaged and destroyed, John patiently heals and rebuilds.

Mycroft feels like suffocating, like there isn’t enough air _(enough of his brother)_ to breathe properly. Mycroft is all about missing something vital, and twenty years of this have left Sherlock exhausted. With John, Sherlock feels almost complete.

His lover gazes at Sherlock with so much affection and reverence, as if _he_ is the one who can’t believe his luck, as if _he_ is the one loved by an amazing man. He adores Sherlock, body and mind, yet he is not a vapid admirer. He challenges Sherlock in a field he never expected to be interested in: John dares him to be a better man.

Where Mycroft unintentionally lays shadows, John easily casts light. That’s just the way it is, the way Sherlock is, and it can’t be helped. But there is a balance to reach here, a potential for a great good man within Sherlock, with the help of the two men he loves, both in spite of himself.

Yes, Mycroft would be a welcome addition. Loving one doesn’t mean that Sherlock doesn’t love the other, and Sherlock knows that no matter what, he will never be able to let Mycroft go.

Sometimes Sherlock closes his eyes and imagines what his lover and his brother would look and feel like together. They could get along very well, if Mycroft was more like himself around John. Sherlock wants to be inside of Mycroft while John takes him. He wants John to read one of his insipid novels tucked in the V of Mycroft’s legs just the way they do when Sherlock feels like it. He wants to share Mycroft’s smile when they listen to the ridiculous monologues John launches into while asleep. He wants John’s breath to catch as he looks at Mycroft, carefree and relaxed in the afterglow, and say “Mycroft”, just like he sometimes says “Sherlock”, as if it is a prayer and the Answer, and Sherlock is unable not to blush.

Absurdly enough, John makes Sherlock want to share.


	10. The heart

Sherlock is thirty-five and Mycroft is giving him back the ring. They are in Sherlock’s and John’s living room, sitting in the facing armchairs, alone. Mycroft says that he has been watching John and him for eight months now (five since they got together), and that he has concluded that Sherlock’s relationship with John is the right one. His voice is uneven and Sherlock can only watch as Mycroft’s grip on the handle of his umbrella gradually tightens until it has to hurt, as his eyes darken with his emotions, as Mycroft’s mask slips and reveals the man underneath, the very one Sherlock still loves so much.

His brother’s smile is all wrong, twisted and full of sadness, and standing seems to cost him a lot. He lets the ring fall to the floor when Sherlock, unable to process what is happening, doesn’t reach his hand out for it. Or maybe he let the ring accidentally fall, Sherlock isn’t sure, Mycroft’s hand is trembling so hard.

Mycroft turns his back to him and starts for the door when Sherlock finds his voice to plead a small scared “Wait” and why is it so hard? Mycroft won’t look at him, Sherlock knows he doesn’t want to see the despair he causes but that’s Sherlock’s best weapon. He stands up too, walks up to his brother and faces him. Mycroft gazes back at him with something fierce and possessive but altogether desperate, just like the way he kisses him seconds later.

His brother just feels so good, so right, and so does John, and he won’t ever be able to choose. Mycroft gently breaks their kiss, staying close, letting his hands wander on Sherlock’s hips and sides. “You won’t endanger your relationship with him for me, Sherlock,” a whisper against Sherlock’s lips, “we have to let go of each other,” a softer kiss on his bottom lip, “and you are well aware of it.” There is something almost daring about Mycroft’s tone and demeanour, a slight undercurrent of warring anger and hope that Mycroft doesn’t manage to conceal, and suddenly everything falls into place.

In the last few months, Sherlock has noticed that Mycroft would show signs of what he had mistaken for uneasiness, whenever he witnessed an aspect of John’s and Sherlock’s intimate relationship, be it a touch of hands, a secretive smile, a shared laughter. He thought that Mycroft, conservative and overly proper, felt awkward because he had known Sherlock as intimately as John has, and because in a way, they were still involved.

He recalls every little sign now, sees them clear as day for what they are: a twist of the mouth, a frown, a stronger grip on his umbrella, an irritated glance sideways... an angry look in his brother’s eyes. Mycroft is jealous. He never was before, so Sherlock never expected him to _finally_ be. Mycroft, jealous.

Mycroft steps back, they don’t touch anymore, and of course Sherlock already misses it. Him. “He is a _wonderful_ man, Sherlock. I wish...” Mycroft stops there, abruptly, and Sherlock knows what he was about to say, at least he thinks that he knows and that he doesn’t just hear what he wants. _I wish I had someone like him._

Sherlock is thirty-five and he thought he was done with hope. He starts planning.

\---------

This is how Sherlock came to really understand how sometimes, destiny decides for you. Sherlock is thirty-five and Moriarty knows. John and Sherlock just came back from New Scotland Yard, John is trying to “find something edible for dinner and you will eat, Sherlock, I’m serious, case ongoing or not.” Sherlock is checking his emails, and _Sexy brother you have here_ from a burningyourheart catches his attention. There is a picture attached. He opens it, and something goes terribly cold in Sherlock’s chest, a mixture of dread and rage taking hold of him. It is a photo of Mycroft and Sherlock, taken on the day Mycroft gave back the ring, probably from a building opposite 221 Baker Street. They are sharing that last, desperate kiss, Sherlock’s hands in his sibling’s hair, Mycroft’s low on his hips.

Even more sickening is the message accompanying the picture : _I wonder how John will react when he realises that you think of your own brother when you two are fucking. Talking about Mycroft, I bet he is a lovely man to spend an evening with._

The threat is real, it may even be too late, and Sherlock will torture and kill Moriarty with relish.

He calls Mycroft and ensures that his brother is safe and will stay that way, thankful, for once, that his brother has such a vital role in the British government, thus granting him the best available guard. The call lasts a few seconds, rapid and to the point, but Sherlock doesn’t have time to feel relieved.

The next instant, he hears a strange noise coming from the kitchen, from John, and he knows that something _very wrong_ already happened. He runs to the kitchen, where John stands still, shocked, in front of the open (and unplugged, Sherlock distantly notices) fridge, and there definitely isn’t anything edible in there. It is empty, except for Moriarty’s sick surprise: John’s laptop is open on the only shelve still in place in the fridge, playing in full screen a very personal movie... Sherlock watches, cold and paralysed and utterly terrified, as silent, on-screen Mycroft and Sherlock kiss, separate, come closer again before Mycroft walks out the door, then the screen goes black for a second before resuming to Sherlock getting up, walking up to his brother, who kisses him once more, in an infinite loop.

Oh, Moriarty will suffer, he will undo him and his whole organisation, no matter how long, difficult or dangerous, Sherlock will do anything to destroy Moriarty. Sherlock will risk everything, because he doesn’t have anything left to lose; he is about to lose John and he never really had Mycroft.

John. John is shaking, and Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, what would make it better, but he does know that denying the truth is out of the question. He has to try and explain himself though, so he does, and “I love you” is the first thing that he finds himself able to say. John turns to him then, broken and sad and Sherlock knows this look, this is the one he saw on Mycroft’s face, in Mycroft’s eyes

\- _he was nineteen and his brother said “No” even though they both wanted it, he was twenty-two and Mycroft asked “What would it be like to be with me, Sherlock?” weary and grim as if the answer should be anything but “wonderful”, he was thirty-two, God, he was thirty-two and after that Mycroft never really lost that look of pain and regret and Sherlock can’t recall the exact sound of his brother’s wonderful, carefree laugh, it has been so long and he misses it and he will miss John so much -_

and John says “You love your brother too”, voice rough and frail and Sherlock finds how to move again to go and hug him, tightly, not willing to let go, but knowing that at some point, he will have to. John is very accepting of everything Sherlock, but even he must have limits. He leads them to their (his) bedroom, gently sits John on the edge of the bed, and kneels in front of him, desperate, supplicating John to just let him explain and not even caring of how humiliating this should probably feel. None of this nightmare feels real anyway.

John is silent, eyes closed and lips tight, but he gives a brief nod. So Sherlock tells his lover everything about Mycroft, from the very beginning of their relationship. He confesses his love, irrepressible and unwelcome although reciprocated, for his own brother (and Sherlock gets it now, the real, heartfelt awkwardness of an incestuous relationship that Mycroft wanted to protect him from: telling John is not easy and Sherlock does fear his lover’s judgment, terribly so). He tells John about the night they shared, about the ring, about the drugs, he tries to be thorough and honest – he doesn’t hide how manipulative he was, nor how Mycroft could sometimes be, doesn’t minimize his feelings nor his lust, tells the truth really, because John deserves to hear it, and because Sherlock doesn’t know which lies would be helpful.

When he gets to John’s arrival in his (their) life, he has to stop, not knowing how to proceed. John is just so _much_. In the last few months, John made Sherlock as happy as he had ever been. Sherlock’s relationship with his brother had tremendously improved too, less unbalanced and on edge than before - John has an extremely positive influence on Sherlock’s emotional state. In a way, Sherlock loves Mycroft more than ever, now that his resentment has considerably faded.

He will probably never have Mycroft, but thanks to John, the pain is bearable. Sherlock was even starting to settle for this, John with him and Mycroft with the ring. Then Mycroft got jealous, and Sherlock couldn’t help but _hope_ , to share these two wonderful men with each other and to have them both at once. Because no matter what, Sherlock is in love with John and Mycroft, and he won’t ever be able to stop loving one of them, there isn’t any switch to turn feelings on and off, Sherlock knows: he spent years looking for it, and all he could find was addiction.

Sherlock concludes with saying, once more, a lost and almost sobbed “I love you.” John, who was silent and remote during the whole time Sherlock spoke, looks at him with a sad, soft smile gracing his lips and he simply asks for a few moments alone, “to think” about what he just heard. Sherlock leaves the bedroom, and spends the rest of the night in the living room. He sits in the sofa for hours, lost in his fear, unable to think properly, unable to picture a future without John, unable to breathe, wanting Mycroft and John to be right here with him so powerfully it _hurts_.

When John walks out of their bedroom, he goes to sit next to him on the sofa, and kisses Sherlock, deep and unhurried. John moves his head back to gaze at Sherlock, his stare full of love and strangely fevered, before murmuring a “Congratulations. You just sold me on incest. I don’t love Mycroft, but I do like him. He’s attractive, and by now I think it’s pretty obvious that I’ll do anything for you. There’s no point denying it.” And John, John can be so _gentle_. Sherlock wants to share this precious man with his brother, and John deserves the best anyway.


	11. The head

When Sherlock was five, he demanded that Mycroft teach him how to play the piano. Mycroft himself was a rather talented player - he had been learning under his mother’s supervision for as long as he could remember - and he loved explaining and showing new things to his baby brother.

They started with music notation and sight-reading, Sherlock an attentive and gifted pupil, and before long he was able to play increasingly complicated compositions, his short reach and child’s hands the only limits. Within a few months, to their mother’s delight, they were able to play progressively more difficult piano four hands. They would spend hours sitting side by side in front of their parents’ baby grand, absorbed in their music; content in each other’s presence.

However, Mycroft could feel that something was amiss. Sherlock loved music and he took great pleasure in playing with him, that much was obvious. But he often grew impatient, wriggled and turned around, restless, somehow _impeded_ to play as he wished to.

What Mycroft appreciated about the piano was the discipline, the solemn posture and the imposing instrument itself that would nonetheless release beautiful melodies when played right. He loved the careful balance between the necessary restraint and a musician’s passion. What Sherlock appreciated about the piano was being with Mycroft; he almost never practiced alone. What Sherlock _loved_ about the piano was the music, full stop.

Mycroft had observed his sibling and had promptly listed many reasons why the piano wasn’t the optimal instrument for him. His top three consisted of fairly obvious facts:

  1. Sherlock played music with his whole body. He had an urge to stand, he wanted to sway to the rhythm of the piece.
  2. Sherlock relished being the focus of everyone’s attention, and the piano was simply too imposing not to be a competitor. (Moreover, Mycroft was a better pianist, and he could tell that it stung sometimes.)
  3. Sherlock was quite upset with the piano being sedentary: he needed an instrument that he could carry with him.



That is how on Sherlock’s seventh birthday, Mycroft convinced his parents to give Sherlock a violin. Sherlock fell in love with it. He took lessons, worked hard, slowly mastering the instrument. Mycroft gave him his second, larger violin on his ninth birthday. Mycroft was tremendously proud - and very satisfied with his idea -, as it became evident that his brother was a genuinely gifted violinist. When Sherlock turned twelve, he picked his last, full size violin with great care and Mycroft’s help, and this one had followed him everywhere since then.

When they lived together, they used to play with or for each other, a piano and a violin, a man and his marvel of a brother. Sherlock almost never played with or for anyone else.

Nowadays, Sherlock doesn’t perform for him anymore. He still plays, for himself mostly, for others sometimes. Whenever Mycroft is there though, Sherlock will only produce broken, discordant and somehow angry sounds; and it gets to Mycroft in a way things rarely do, because he misses it - _misses Sherlock_ \- so much.

Watching from afar, he sees his brother slowly become less unbalanced and isolated, forming strange (distant, strong) bonds with a kaleidoscope of people but bonds nonetheless, leading a less miserable, much more fulfilling life and he is so proud and relieved he might be happy someday, if not for the loneliness. Mycroft might have a ring that makes him his sibling’s exclusive property, he still denied Sherlock, and he will never be forgiven. So this is where Mycroft stands now: out of Sherlock’s world and once tender affection, but still excluded from anyone else’s ones.

Then John and Sherlock meet and something in his brother changes as they get closer. Mycroft can’t help his fear and his hope to mingle and leave him lost in between what he wishes and what he should and shouldn’t wish.

As Moriarty plays his cruel game, Mycroft can see that Sherlock is going a little mad, but he is not spinning out of control and John keeps him in line. Mycroft tries not to be jealous, and he fails. Then _the pool_ happens, and Mycroft watches with a heart burning with residual fear and relief as a scared and guilty Sherlock, sitting in the back of an ambulance, watches John like he is the most important person in the world, unable to hide his feelings, at least not from his brother.

A few days later, John and Sherlock kiss and make love and Mycroft knows what jealousy, burning, scathing, destructive, feels like.

John is the only one who loves Sherlock the way he should be loved. John is the only one acting _normally_ around Sherlock and regarding his abilities. Everyone should be astonished and admiring, but everyone isn’t. It makes Mycroft terribly angry, the way some members of the police take Sherlock for granted, his brilliance for monstrousness. But there’s more to John than that, Mycroft can sense it – could sense it on their first meeting. John is a good man, understanding and strong willed, so loyal, and just exactly what Sherlock needs in many ways. Sherlock starts playing for John, a lot, and Mycroft knows it because his brother gets so lost in his music that he doesn’t always hear him enter the flat, and that it happens more and more frequently.

Mycroft tries to hate John, because it would be much easier on his heart, and he fails: Sherlock has never played such joyous pieces on his violin before.


	12. The heart

Sherlock is thirty-five and John is waiting for Mycroft by his side, two still and apprehensive men on their living room sofa.

When Mycroft comes in, he notices that they are tense right away. The way John can’t help staring at his lips doesn’t go amiss either. Mycroft casts an interrogative look at his brother, clearly startled (somewhere in his mind, this pleases Sherlock to no end), and what he sees prompts him to say “You cannot possibly love me anymore. Not after...” he stops there, abruptly. “You should hate me, Sherlock.” Here, standing in the middle of a room he entered in such a self-assured manner dozens of times, Mycroft looks - he sounds, he _is_ \- weary, sad, unsure and... lost. How un-mycroftian of him.

“We both love him, he loves us both, and this is about sharing, not just having two lovers, or cheating on one of us.” These words, in John’s steady voice, fill Sherlock’s heart with hope, because this means that John really understands Sherlock’s wish, and Mycroft might believe him too. Sherlock’s gaze is locked on his brother, who in turn is watching John’s face intently.

His lover gets up and walks up to Mycroft to gently cup his face, a bold and yet tentative gesture - and only John manages to be both at once. “I do think that this could work, Mycroft” a soothing whisper, and John slowly moves in closer, Sherlock’s heart beating madly in his own chest because now is the verdict, he murmurs “Don’t hit me” against Mycroft’s lips – oh God his brother is _not moving away_ \- and then they’re kissing.

Everything in Sherlock stills and his mind is stuck and when Mycroft starts answering to the kiss, the sight becomes _blinding_. Sherlock sits, unable to move; watching as John and Mycroft kiss and explore each other with a tenderness he didn’t dare hope for. They caress each other’s face, arms, sides and back, slow and discovering, and even if there isn’t anything specifically sexual about the kiss, Sherlock feels a strong desire for them. He can see that nothing of the kind will happen tonight: they need time and the precious intimacy of minds before the intimacy of bodies, and Sherlock waited for so long anyway – what is a few hours, or a few days, compared to a lifetime, now that he knows that he will have it? (Ah, if one of them changes his mind now, Sherlock might never recover.)

He also files for later exploration his urge to join them. Now is not the time: this trial is meant to check Mycroft’s and John’s mutual attraction without Sherlock in the picture (and a part of him is jealous, so jealous, but he tested them, several times and they both love Sherlock so much it’s insane and now is just the most up-to-date evidence if he needed one and they’ll never leave him anyway because he won’t let it happen).

John moans, a content and slightly aroused sound, and when they separate, Mycroft answers with a more sincere, if faintly tense, smile. This could work, it has to work.

What is wonderful is that it does work.

Whenever Sherlock imagined what would be the first thing he would do with his brother, _to_ his brother, if they did get involved in a romantic relationship, he pictured them finally doing all the lewd, filthy things Sherlock had been fantasizing about. He never expected to fall asleep in his arms after an evening filled with easy conversation, kind gazes and fond smiles. He never expected John to be there - never expected _John_.

Mycroft is a warm weight by his side, so is John. He watches them sleep until his eyes close against his will.

The following morning, Sherlock wakes up to a warm hand on his stomach, and a small kiss on his temple. Mycroft’s touch, John’s lips, Sherlock’s heart in the middle. They are both smiling, easy and with a hint of anticipation that tells Sherlock what they would like to do now that he is awake. _Mycroft is still there_ , so is _John_ , and Sherlock feels something wonderful and immense blossom inside of his chest, that tastes like John’s lips and Mycroft’s neck, sounds like Mycroft’s playing the piano and John’s gun firing, feels like Mycroft’s affectionate caress and John’s moans around his cock, smells like John’s jumpers and Mycroft’s skin, looks like the three of them naked in an undone bed, beats like their three hearts. He doesn’t dare name it for now, but he knows that it will come.

Sherlock rests his forehead against Mycroft’s chest, John’s hand resting in the small of his back, and he thinks about his brother’s heart beating strong and slow, there, there; he remembers feeling broken and lost, a useless, lonely man whose future held no challenge, no love, no happiness, _nothing_. He sobs, though this time it’s from relief, and none of them comment on it.

\---------

Sherlock was sixteen and Mycroft was his only project.

His future would be by Mycroft’s side and they would team up and it would be them against the world. They would share a house, a bed and maybe a job. They would be happy and envied and Sherlock would not be that strange, annoying creature nobody liked anymore. He would be Sherlock Holmes. They would be _the Holmes brothers_.

Sherlock is thirty-five and Mycroft is the first half of the most beautiful thing in his life. John is what was missing and everything about him is indispensable, strong and loving, and in a way, it _is_ them against the world.

Sherlock can settle for this: Holmes and Watson, the Holmes brothers, John and Sherlock and Mycroft, and what is extraordinary is that Mycroft and John seem like they could too.


End file.
